


Perfect Strangers

by YlvaUllsdotter



Series: SPN Dean Bingo 2019 [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Dean Winchester - Freeform, Gen, OC Challenge, Original Female Character - Freeform, SPN Dean Bingo 2019, Shapeshifter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 22:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20366188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YlvaUllsdotter/pseuds/YlvaUllsdotter
Summary: A string of unexplained deaths in town has Riley on edge. Living among humans is a risk, but it’s one she has been willing to take rather than lurk in the dark all alone. When Dean Winchester catches up with her, she fears for her life, but he turns out to be surprisingly reasonable for a hunter.





	Perfect Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [@spndeanbingo](https://spndeanbingo.tumblr.com/). Square filled: Shapeshifter.
> 
> Also written for [@fandomoniumflurry](https://fandomoniumflurry.tumblr.com/) [Mikey's SPN OC challenge](https://fandomoniumflurry.tumblr.com/post/186829998378/since-i-havent-been-around-for-a-while-gish) with the prompt Perfect Strangers. I used it as the title and loosely as inspiration for the story. This is a case fic. 
> 
> I apologize for nothing.

The morning sunlight peeked through the curtains, dust motes dancing in the shafts of light. Shuffling bare feet on cheap linoleum flooring make their way to the kitchen area. With practiced ease, sleepy fingers find the button for the coffee maker and it clicks on. The silence is broken by the gurgling of the machine, the smell of fresh coffee soon filling the air. The tank top rides up when stretching for a clean mug, briefly revealing smooth tan skin before it falls back into place. 

Mug in hand, Riley perches on one of the two ladderback chairs and flips open her laptop. Waiting for it to wake up, she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear and yawns, blows on her coffee and blinks sleepily. Her eyes wander back to the screen, and she hits the reload button to get the latest news updates. She scans the headlines.

“Fuck.”

Suddenly she finds she has no appetite for breakfast. The biggest story is about the presumed serial killer. Clearly, the police have no clue what they are dealing with. Riley sets her coffee down and types for a few moments, easily hacking into the police system. Another death, and no new clues. Typical. 

Dropping her head into her hands, Riley groans. There was no way she could leave this up to the civilians, they would get eaten alive. Literally. 

“Ugh. Fine.”

A little more digging into personnel files gives her the information she needs. Closing the laptop, she heads back down the hall, leaving her coffee to go cold on the table.

An hour later, she walks the halls of the police station, doing her best to avoid talking to anyone. Finding the locker room, she quickly locates the correct locker and makes quick work of the padlock. Grabbing the badge, she closes the locker and turns to leave.

“Hey, Casey. Thought you were off today?” The guy is a damn mountain. 

“Uh, yeah, I am, just had to grab something from my locker real quick,” Riley hedges.

“Right. Kids waiting outside, huh?”

_ Shit. Should have done more research. _ Riley makes a non-committal sound that could mean anything, gives the guy what she hopes is a convincingly friendly smile, and forces herself to walk out like it is just another normal day.

“Enjoy your day off, Case.” The guy grins and gives a little wave.

“I will,” Riley replies and then she is out of there. 

The walk back out is a blur, but no one comes after her or stops her, so she has to assume she pulled it off. Once she is in her car and dares to breathe, she almost collapses as the tension leaves her.

_ You can do this, Riley. One step at a time. C’mon, get it together.  _ She shakes her head at herself and turns the key, starting the car and turning out of the parking lot. Before pulling into traffic, she keys in the address into her phone’s GPS and turns it on.

Following the directions of the GPS, she quickly arrives at her first destination. Going through the police files, she has weeded out the witnesses that she thinks would be least useful. That has left only three people to talk to. Taking a deep breath, she slides out of the car and walks up to the front door of the first witness’s house.

An older man opens the door a crack, leaving the screen door between them. 

“Yes? Can I help you, young lady?” He sounds suspicious, which is good for him but might make things harder for Riley.

“Good morning, sir. My name is Casey Washington, I’m with the police department. I’m here to follow up on your statement regarding the death of your granddaughter,” Riley lies and hopes he does not catch the slight hesitation before the name.

“May I see some ID, officer?” The guy might be old, but he is sharp as a tack. She will have to be careful.

“Of course,” she smiles and pulls the ID out of her inside pocket, holding it up for him to see. 

He opens the screen door to get a better look, then nods and comes out onto the porch. He is not going to let her into his home. Good for him. Riley goes right on smiling while she tucks the ID wallet back into her pocket. Picking her words carefully, she starts asking questions.

Three hours later, she has visited all three witnesses and has a good idea of where to start looking. However, she also suspects she is being followed. A classic Chevy Impala had pulled up at the second place just as she was leaving, and then again at the last place. Keeping an eye on her rearview mirrors, she meanders her way through the city long enough to make sure no one is following, then speeds back to her house.

A shower and change later, she takes the time to eat a quick bite. It would certainly not do to be found out because of a grumbling stomach. While she eats, Riley looks up the property all the witness stories pointed to. It appears to be just your average house, uninhabited, on the market for a few years now. As far as she can find out, it is owned by the estate of the old lady that died there some years back. 

Satisfied that the place is not occupied by any civilians, Riley checks the blueprints for the property and makes a plan of attack. Not that she expects anyone to be there, but it never hurts to be prepared for the worst. All she expects to find are clues for where to look next.

Dressing in comfortable and dark clothes, including a pair of thin leather gloves, Riley waits until dusk before leaving her house again. With the unfamiliar car earlier, she keeps a careful eye both ways along the street when she gets into hers, but can see nothing out of the ordinary. 

With where the house is located, she does not need directions from the GPS this time, and the late hour ensures there is virtually no traffic once she gets out of the city center. Driving slowly towards the house, she is glad for how silent her car is. She parks two houses away along the street and walks the rest of the way. Partly to not make any more noise than necessary, and partly to check out the adjoining properties. Only one place has lights on, three houses down and on the other side of the street. All the other places are dark and if it not for the well-kept gardens she would think they were abandoned.

The house she is there to investigate does not have a well-kept garden. It looks as if it only gets a mow sporadically, probably by a real estate agent hoping to make a sale. A few barely-in-check bushes by the porch ensures that no one walking by on the street will be able to see her. She walks up onto the porch as if she has every right in the world to be there but as soon as she is concealed by the darkness, she slips over the porch railing and along the side of the house.

The back yard is not quite a jungle, but it is not far from it. Apparently whoever mowed the front felt that the back did not need the same attention. The ground floor windows are set high enough that she has no way of peeking inside, so she hurries around to the back door. It is locked, unsurprisingly. This is a house for sale, not an abandoned property after all. Working quickly and mostly by touch, Riley pulls the lockpick from her pocket and starts picking the lock. 

When it finally clicks, a good couple of minutes in, she has to bite back a sigh of relief. It is certainly not the first lock she has ever picked, but she is not an expert by any means.

Riley holds her breath while she eases the door open. Grateful to whoever oiled the hinges, she opens it only enough for her to slip inside and closes it behind herself. 

The house is, unsurprisingly, dark. It also has that musty smell old houses get when they have sat empty for a while. She wrinkles her nose at the smell, while also feeling thankful there are no other smells in the air. Dust, old wallpaper, moisture somewhere, and maybe a bit of mold, but no blood, or smell of death. Moving slowly into the house, Riley stays close to the wall to avoid creaky floorboards. She keeps one hand on the wall, slightly in front of her body, to catch any furniture that may have been left behind before she stumbles over it. 

She has only made it halfway along the hallway when she has to stop and focus on her breathing. Taking slow deliberate breaths through her mouth, to minimize the sound, she works to calm herself. She considers using the small flashlight she has in her pocket but decides against it. There is just enough light that she can make out shadows. It will have to be enough.

Continuing along the wall, she feels the difference in texture when the wall turns into a door. Riley closes her eyes, unnecessarily, and recalls the blueprints for the house. This has to be the kitchen. Testing the knob, it turns easily enough and she opens the door a crack. Just enough to peer inside. Light from a streetlamp outside makes it almost bright in the kitchen after the darkness of the hallway and she might have been able to pass it by if not for the island in the middle. Someone could be hiding behind it. Standing perfectly still, Riley uses all of her senses to assess the room. There is no sound of breathing, no sense of anyone there. Finally, she slips into the room and eases around the island, exposing herself as little as possible when she peers around the corner. 

Empty, just like her senses had told her.  _ Better safe than sorry _ , Riley justifies to herself as she looks around. The door to the basement should be...right there. Keeping low and staying out of the line of sight of any nosy neighbors, she moves over to it. It is locked. Not just locked, padlocked. She finds that troubling, but at least if there is anything in there, it is not getting out to attack her from behind. 

She side-eyes the door to the dining room, but leaves it alone and slips back out into the hallway, closing the kitchen behind her. Recalling the blueprints again, she crosses the hallway on light feet and feels around for the door to the small washroom. Finding it almost immediately, she cracks it open and peers inside. The room is too small for anyone to be able to hide in there and she closes it and moves on.

By the time Riley reaches the end of the hallway, it feels as if she has gone miles in the dark, when in fact it is more like ten feet. She is sweating, and a few strands of hair that have escaped the bun dangle by her ear. On the other side of this door should be the front room. Directly across from the door will be the small foyer and front door. To the left will be an arch leading to the dining room. The bad spot is the foyer. It has the stairs that lead to the second floor, and from across the room, she will not be able to see if anyone is lurking there. 

Staying low, Riley eases the door open just a crack and peers through. The front room is surprisingly well lit, the light coming in from the street. It shows quite clearly a mostly empty room, wood floor, floral wallpaper that has started to peel at the corners. Unfortunately, the shadows keep the foyer in the dark, in spite of a couple of long and narrow windows on either side of the door. 

Riley moves left, towards the dining room, staying out of the line of sight of the stairs. Peering through the arch, she finds another empty room, light streaming in through the window. There is no one there, and nowhere for anyone to hide if they had been. Moving quickly past the arch, Riley leans against the wall for a moment, straining her senses. There is no one there. At least she hopes.

Peeking around the corner carefully, she almost wishes there was less light. The little that comes in from outside only makes it more difficult to see what is in the shadows. Deciding to trust her senses, Riley moves to the bottom of the stairs and peers up. Nothing.

Staying close to the edge, she climbs the stairs, managing to do so without a single creak. Now that she is at the top of the stairs, the little light filtering up from downstairs is a help again. Her night vision has always been rather good, and she can make out three doors along a hallway that she guesses runs the width of the house. Two doors to the right, one to the left. If she remembers the blueprints correctly, the one to the right will be the master suite. To the left would be a guest room and bathroom. 

Riley decides to try the bathroom first, for no other reason than that it is farthest from the stairs. Slinking along the wall, she tries the knob. It is a little loose, and she has to exert extra pressure to turn it without rattling. The door is a little stuck, probably from moisture if she goes by the smell. Finally, she gets it open a crack without making more noise than a mouse running across the floor. There is a small window high up on the wall, letting in what must be moonlight, considering it faces the backyard. It is enough to make out that the bathroom is empty. There is no shower curtain either, so no one could be hiding in the bathtub. 

Closing that door, she carefully makes her way across the hallway to the guest room door. Trying the nob, she almost curses when she finds it locked. Sliding her hand over the door above and below the knob, she finds the lock, the key sticking out. She holds her breath while she turns the key as carefully as she possibly can. There is a click that seems to echo through the empty house, and she waits, staring into the shadows with eyes open wide, waiting for something to happen.

When nothing does, she tries the doorknob to the guest room again. This time, the door swings open and reveals a not so empty room. A sleeping bag lies below the window, across from the door. A bundle that she cannot make out sits up against the wall by the foot end of the sleeping bag. A battery-operated lantern on the window sill, dark now. 

Taking a moment to think it through, Riley realizes the door was locked from the outside. Meaning whoever has been staying there is not there now. Aside from the items, the room is empty, so she opts to check the master suite before investigating further.

Slipping down the hallway, she has to restrain herself from getting overconfident. There is still a risk that the owner of the sleeping bag might be waiting for her in the remaining unexplored spaces. Trying the knob, she finds the master bedroom unlocked. The door swings open easily and the light from outside proves there is no one hiding in there. Keeping low, she hustles along the wall to the bathroom door. It is already ajar, and she gives it a slight push to swing it open. There is no window in this bathroom, but enough light filters in that she can tell there is no one there.

Riley finally allows herself to marginally relax. At least for the moment, no one is going to jump out at her. Moving more easily now that she is not hugging the walls anymore, Riley goes back to the guest room. She crouches by the bundle sitting against the wall and pulls out the flashlight, cupping her hand around the end to shield the light. From what she can tell, the bundle consists of various pieces of clothing. She has just decided that it has to be someone’s wardrobe when she spots a dark stain on a shirt. Lifting it closer, she sniffs it. Blood.

More careful now, Riley picks through the clothing and scrutinizes each item. There are eleven items. Each is different; a couple of the items are female. Eleven items. Eleven victims. This bastard likes to keep trophies.

A sound from downstairs makes her freeze in place, a t-shirt still in her hand. All her senses are on full alert now. Her eyes flick to the window. Will she be able to slip out that way in a pinch? It might be possible. There is a creak. Whoever is down there is not concerned about being silent. An image of the padlocked basement door flickers through her mind and she resolutely shoves it away. Slipping across the floor silent as a ghost, Riley leaves the guest room and hovers at the top of the stairs. There is a beep, then a bluish light that seems bright to Riley. Whoever is there just got a text message.

Wafting down the stairs, Riley lurks in the shadows at the bottom. Steps approach from the dining room. Boots, not shoes, so probably not a cop. The orange light from outside makes it difficult to make out colors, but the person that appears is a guy. Work boots, jeans, canvas jacket over a flannel shirt. She catches a glimpse of a sheath on his belt and there is a bulge at the small of his back that is probably a gun. He is just slipping his phone into his pocket and Riley makes a split-second decision. 

She pounces from the shadows. Using both hands clasped together like a club she catches the guy high between the shoulder blades. He grunts and staggers and before she realizes, Riley is on the floor, a forearm hard as steel at her throat and a pistol pointed at her head.

“Who are you?” The guy growls the words and Riley is too shocked to reply.

In a smooth motion too quick to follow, he pulls a knife with the same hand that holds the pistol and makes a shallow cut on her wrist where her shirt sleeve has been pushed up. Riley flinches and cries out, the cut burning worse than fire. Of course, a silver blade.

The gun seems to be pointing more intently at her head now, cocked and ready to fire.

“Wait!” Riley finally manages to find her voice. 

“Why?” The growl is so much more menacing now.

“I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me. I’m tracking the guy that did,” she manages to get out, her eyes unable to look away from the muzzle of the gun.

“Why should I believe you?” 

“Please. My name is Riley Wilson, I work at the auto repair shop on 4th Street, I live at 1337 Birch Road. I’m a shifter, but I never killed anyone, I swear,” Riley is babbling now, feeling like this might be the night she dies. “You’re a hunter, right? You’re after the shifter that’s killed eleven people so far? I found clues, upstairs. Please, you have to believe me.” She almost bites her tongue to stop herself from babbling on. Beads of sweat roll off her forehead and down her temples while she waits for this stranger to decide if she gets to live.

He stares at her for what feels like hours.  _ Pretty eyes _ , she catches herself thinking, irrationally. In the light from the streetlamp, it is impossible to tell what color they are, but framed by those thick eyelashes they are gorgeous. She wants to keep an eye on the pistol but finds she cannot look away from those eyes. It is like they are looking into her soul.

Finally, he gets off her and puts the gun away. Sitting up, her eyes glance off the silver blade still in his hand before coming back to his. 

“What kind of clues?” The growl is apparently his normal voice. 

“Clothes. Trophies from his victims. There’s a sleeping bag, but I didn’t have time to check it out before I heard you,” she explains, trying to sound as non-threatening and accommodating as possible. 

He gestures with his free hand. “Show me.”

Riley gets up and leads the way up the stairs. She hears him stumble a little behind her in the dark and keeps her pace slower than she would have usually, so he can keep up. Holding the door to the guest room open, she gestures at the items in there. Silently, he motions for her to enter ahead of him. Riley does and pokes the pile of clothing with her boot. 

“Trophies. There’s blood on some of them. Can probably use them to make a case against him after he’s dead,” she offers.

The guy stands in the middle of the room and stares at the items on the floor, not even acknowledging that Riley has spoken.  _ Fine, be that way. _ She leans her shoulder against the wall next to the window and waits. After what cannot be more than a minute or so, he takes a step closer to the sleeping bag, crouches down, and uses the blade to lift the top of it. Inside is a large manila envelope, bloody fingerprints smudged along the edge. Riley wants to defend herself, say that she has not had time to check properly, but she stays stubbornly silent.

At least until the guy looks up at her and side-nods to the envelope.

“You’ve got gloves on. Open it,” he growls at her.

Grimacing, Riley crouches down next to him and picks up the envelope. It is open along one edge and she shakes out the contents. There are polaroids. Looking closer she sees they are of the victims. The top couple of images that she can see show the same girl tied up and crying in one and the other must be after he killed her. Riley recognizes the t-shirt the girl was wearing. She feels the saliva collect in her mouth, bile rising from her stomach. Suddenly she regrets the food she had earlier.

“Put them back,” the growl of the guy’s voice right next to her brings her focus back and she quickly scoops up the pictures and slides them back into the envelope, tossing the whole thing back where they found it. Without saying anything, she stands up and leaves the room, stopping just outside to breathe. Somehow it feels as if the photos have contaminated the air in the room. 

She feels his presence next to her before she hears him.

“You ok?”

Not trusting herself to speak just yet, Riley shakes her head. He seems to understand. More importantly, her reaction has apparently erased his lingering doubts about her. The knife is nowhere to be seen.

“C’mon, let’s get outta here,” the guy says, the growl somehow softer now. He nods toward the stairs and she leads the way. In the front room, she stops and turns towards him.

“There’s, uh, there’s a basement. The door’s locked,” she manages, without throwing up, and gestures in the general direction.

“Show me.”

She leads the way down the hallway that seemed so long earlier. It is only a few steps from the front room door to the kitchen door. She enters ahead of him, then steps aside and gestures at the basement door on the other side of the room.

Without speaking, he moves over to the door and slips a lockpick out of his pocket. Before he tackles the lock, he puts his ear to the door and stands there listening for a few long moments. Not hearing anything, he picks the lock so quickly Riley almost wonders if it was locked at all. He sets the padlock on the counter closest to him and slips the lockpick back into his pocket. Glancing over to Riley, he seems to be asking if she is ready, so she nods. She does not feel ready to face whatever might be down there, but what is she supposed to do. She certainly is not walking away now. 

The door swings open easily, and silently, and reveals nothing but darkness beyond. Moving closer, Riley can make out the top of a set of wooden stairs, but nothing beyond the fourth step. The hunter pulls a penlight from his pocket and carefully descends the first couple of steps before clicking it on. The narrow beam of light reveals three more steps, then a rough concrete floor. 

Riley watches him enter the darkness, fighting a battle in her mind. Part of her wants to help, wants to see what is down there, but another part is terrified and screaming at her to get the hell out of there as fast as she can. Letting out a huff of annoyance, she takes a step towards the basement stairs. She shakes her head. Another step.

“Sonofabitch!” The muffled exclamation comes out of the darkness and settles the battle for her.

She quickly moves to the doorway and looks down the stairs. The guy has moved away from them though and she has to descend a few steps to even see the beam from his flashlight. The light bobs over something on the floor and Riley moves down to get a better look. Nothing has attacked the hunter, so it seems safe enough. Her excellent night vision reveals a lightbulb and a string next to it just about in the middle of the room. She moves up and pulls the string, turning the light on. She blinks a few times to let her eyes adjust, then focuses on the thing the flashlight revealed.

It looks like another bundle of clothes at first glance. Then she sees the foot sticking out. The guy is already crouched down, the flashlight replaced by the silver knife. When he makes the shallow cut just above the ankle, the bundle stirs. A muffled sound emerges from under the dirty fabric, so weak they almost miss it. Riley crouches by what she surmises must be the head of the person. Peeling back the filthy fabric  _ a blanket? _ she reveals a tangled, matted, mess of hair that mostly covers a face that looks like it has gone ten rounds with a wrecking ball. The polaroids flash through Riley’s mind and she feels nauseous again. 

The guy has already removed his jacket and is handing it to Riley, so she fights back the nausea and helps the poor girl sit up, wrapping the garment around her. It is sorely needed, the rags barely covering her body look like they might have been a dress at some point, but now they are not even fit to use as oil rags. She did not react to the silver, so she must be human, and the killer’s next victim. How long has she been here? There have been no reports about anyone missing fitting this girl’s description.

Riley tries to help the girl stand, but she seems to have no control over her limbs. The hunter steps up and scoops the girl into his arms with no visible effort. He nods for Riley to precede him so she does, up the stairs and out the back door. She starts towards her car when he grunts and nods the other way down the street. Looking that way, Riley spots the Chevy she thought was following her earlier that day. When they reach the car, he digs a set of keys out of his pants pocket and jingles them at Riley. Grabbing them, she tries the only one that seems plausible in the rear door and pops it open on the first try. He slides the girl in, then grabs the keys from Riley.

“Go home. I’ll handle this,” he instructs and Riley nods, still a little bit in shock.

The sleek black car rumbles past her as she is getting into her Prius. She watches it until it turns onto the main road, the taillights winking out in the distance. On instinct, she looks around before sliding into the driver’s seat, seeing nothing at all; not even nosy neighbors peeking through the blinds. Turning the key, she checks the time in the light from the dashboard. Two in the morning. No wonder no one is around, sensible people are asleep at that hour. Grumbling at herself, she pulls out into the street and putters on home. At least the murders will stop now. Hopefully.

Riley wakes the next morning when her alarm goes off at seven-thirty. Surely four hours of sleep is enough for anyone to get by on? Feeling like she will never be properly awake again, she shuffles into the kitchen and gets the coffee started. Today of all days, she is going to need it. After a cold shower and two mugs of java, Riley calls the shop and lets her boss know she is going to be late. She blames it on having to run a few essential errands, but he is good about it, telling her it is a slow day and not to worry about it.

That handled, Riley turns on her laptop to check the news. Sure enough, breaking news, serial killer caught. One victim saved. FBI involvement. Riley smirked. FBI? No more than she is. It is better if the cops think so though. They do not need to know about what lurks in the dark.

She has just gotten off the phone with the hospital, checking on the girl that was rescued, claiming insurance reasons, when there is a knock on the front door. Keeping the phone with her, just in case, she takes a look out the side window. It is the hunter, although now he is all dressed up like G-man. 

“Good morning, Agent,” she smirks. “Can I tempt you with a cup of coffee?”

“Hey. That’d be great, but I can’t stay. Just wanted to let you know it’s all good. Put a silver bullet in the bastard and convinced the cops he was just another sicko,” he explains, his voice a lot softer this morning than it was the night before.

“Yeah, saw the news. Good job. And, thank you. I imagine you don’t hear that a lot in your line of work,” she replies, genuinely grateful.

“Not so much, no,” he gives her a crooked smile. “We’re outta here. You stay safe, ok?”

“Promise,” Riley nods.

He is halfway down the porch steps when she remembers.

“Hey.”

He half-turns with an eyebrow questioningly raised.

“You never told me your name,” Riley shrugs, almost regretting the words as soon as they are out of her mouth.

“Dean,” he replies, with a devil-may-care-smirk. “Dean Winchester.”

He raises a hand in a little wave, then continues down the path to the street, getting into the black Chevy. Someone is sitting in the passenger seat and Riley recalls he said ‘we’. The car rumbles to life and rolls into the street, disappearing in the distance as Riley stands there and watches.

Dean Winchester. She will never forget the green-eyed hunter.


End file.
